


A Tavern in France

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Dorothy Dunnett - The Lymond Chronicles
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:New Year Resolutions 2009, recipient:Ione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you take it?" asked Johannes.<br/>"I can take a lot," said Jerott.<br/>Jerott leaves Scotland, without much idea of where he is going.<br/>Spoilers for the end of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tavern in France

  


  
  
  
  
  


  
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## A Tavern in France

 

Fandom: [Dorothy Dunnett - The Lymond Chronicles](http://yuletidetreasure.org/get_fandom_quicksearch.cgi?Fandom=Dorothy%20Dunnett%20-%20The%20Lymond%20Chronicles)

 

Written for: Ione in the New Year Resolutions 2009 Challenge

by [Philipa Moss](http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/cgi-bin/contact.cgi?filename=86/atavern)

It was time for Jerott to move on.

Things with Elizabeth had just begun to become complicated, and Jerott couldn't face Lymond to tell him that he had no more interest in traveling, in fighting, in following. Those days were over, although what days were, therefore, left to Jerott, he had not yet discovered. He just knew that he would never again find himself on horseback, watching that body seated on the horse just ahead and to the left move beneath its clothes. There was no more time for that.

So after burying Marthe, and after a respectable amount of time was spent letting Kuzum cross-examine him about events the lad was either too wise or too frightened to ask his father about, Jerott left Scotland and made for the continent. On the boat he encountered a friend of Archie's, a retired pirate, who recommended a brothel in Rouen. The whores there were skinny and unimaginative, but they knew a lot about France, more than what Jerott had picked up during his time living in Paris, and told him to go to Carcassonne. There, they said, a man might get into tavern fights, or take up farming, or drink and fuck all day long, or read and swap stories, or engage in an inventive combination of all four. Jerott muttered that he knew only one man who could do that, but he left, nonetheless, the next day for Carcassonne in the south.

He could see the city for miles before he reached it. A walled city on a hill is difficult to miss, doubly so because the late afternoon sun struck something perched on the highest tower and reflected brightness directly into Jerott's eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose, lowered his head, and pressed on. His horse was sure-footed, at least. He reflected self-deprecatingly that with the amount of wine he had consumed the night before, he would hardly move with such ease.

The lower city was made up of small houses and as he rode his horse up toward the main gates, he narrowly avoided trampling a little boy who fled into the road after a ball. Jerott pulled back harshly on the reins and swiftly dismounted to avoid being thrown off. He held fast to the horse, and whispered to it soothingly, trying to remember what Archie used to say to the elephants and cattle and horses and all the other ungodly creatures with which the man had such an unexpected rapport.

A woman came out of the house behind the little boy. Her face had lost all color, and she rushed to scoop up her son and carried him back into the house.

"Do you know the nearest---" the door slammed behind her. "---tavern?" Jerott finished to the air.

"Through the gates and take second street on your left. A few doors in," said a voice behind him. Jerott turned to see an older man, graying, stooped.

"Many thanks," said Jerott.

The man waved a hand, modestly.

"I could use a little hair of the dog," Jerott continued, even as he spoke wondering why he felt the need to justify himself to this man. Perhaps it was the years of justifying himself to Marthe, even though she had long ceased to care.

"A dog itself is what you need," said the old man. He paused thoughtfully and then spit onto the ground. He smiled. "Meaning no disrespect."

Jerott grinned. "Not at all."

The man continued on his way, and Jerott remounted and rode on to the upper city. It was darker inside the walls, but dusk had not yet fallen so there was enough light to make out the second street on the left, and the grimy sign that hung above the door of the tavern a few doors in, announcing that Jerott had reached Les Gibiers de Potence. Jerott could think of more encouraging names, but decided, in the end, that there were bound to be fewer people inside such an establishment. He was in no mood to socialize.

The interior was cavernous, paneled in dark wood and unexpectedly cold. There was no one serving, and as far as Jerott could see at first glance, before his eyes adjusted, there were only two people in the room at all. One was an elderly woman nodding by the fire and one was a man stretched out between two chairs, his hat pulled down over his eyes. Although his clothes were unassuming, his boots were new, well made. Jerott felt himself instinctively on his guard, and was careful not to turn his back to the man as he made his way over to the woman and shook her gently awake and asked for ale. She got up and, cursing under her breath, made her way into a back room. Jerott sat down at a table, resting his back against that of the chair but not allowing his muscles to relax. He wondered if her could anymore, really. Relaxation seemed to belong to another life.  
On the morning that Jerott had left Scotland, Kuzum had shown up at his door. "What are you doing here?" Jerott had asked. "It's too early for you to be up and about."

"Oh," said Kuzum. He held one side of the door and balanced on one leg. "Well, soldiers have to get up really early. You have to get up early to fight."

"But you're not going to fight, are you?" asked Jerott.

Kuzum wobbled on his leg and clutched the door. He shrugged unsteadily.

"Who would you fight?"

"I dunno. Somebody. You fought people."

Jerott sat down on his bed, next to his bags. "Yes, Kuzum, I did. But wouldn't you rather stay here and take care of things? Take care of Philippa and Kate?"

Kuzum shrugged again. He sat down on the floor just inside the door and crossed his legs.

Jerott sighed. "You want to fight. Why?"

"I dunno," Kuzum said again. He scratched his head. "I want to make women fall in love with me. Like father did."

And there was really no response to that save to laugh. Jerott laughed until his face was red and there were tears in his eyes and he wasn't really sure whether he was laughing anymore. Kuzum stood up angrily. "Don't laugh at me!" he exclaimed. "I mean it!" And he stormed out.

Jerott had wiped his eyes and sat on the bed for a long time after Kuzum left. He could no longer remember what he thought about, then, but now, in this tavern in Carcassonne, he was very curious to know.

"You're not French either, then," said a voice. It was coming from beneath the hat.

Jerott stiffened. "No," he said.

The man sat up. He pushed the hat back from his face. It was impossible to tell for sure in the low light of the fire, but Jerott was almost sure that he was smiling. At least his teeth were showing, above an ordinary chin and below a nose that erred on the side of shortness. Two eyes stared at him. Those were most certainly smiling, because they disappeared at the sides like a sun rising. They were maybe brown, or black. Jerott couldn't tell.

"I couldn't make her understand me," said the man. "Would you mind ordering me one too when she comes back?"

"Not at all," said Jerott.

"Thanks," said the man. He took his hat off and placed it on the table next to him. He shook his head violently as if clearing cobwebs from his hair, which, Jerott was pleased to note, was not blonde. Instead it was a plain brown, and curly. "Say something else," he said pleasantly.

"Why?" asked Jerott, narrowing his eyes.

"I want to see if I can guess where you're from."

"I shouldn't think you could do that," said Jerott. "I've lived a lot of places. There. Guess with that."

The man sat for a long time. He stared into Jerott's face. This made Jerott uncomfortable.

"Well?" he said, finally.

"Scotland," said the man. "You're from Scotland."

"Where were you born?" asked Jerott.

"You are from Scotland, aren't you?"

"Tell me where you were born and I'll tell you whether or not I'm from Scotland. All right?"

The man smiled, and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He never took his eyes from Jerott's. "Guess," he said.

Jerott tried to hold his gaze, to make him as uncomfortable as he had made Jerott. He was unsuccessful. Finally, he sat back in his chair and stated the obvious. "Bavaria," he said.

The man blinked. "Well done."

"And, yes," said Jerott, "I am from Scotland."

"I knew it." The man settled back in his chair. "I wonder," he said, "whether the old woman has died in pursuit of your ale. This doesn't make my chances look very good."

"Do you want to find somewhere else?" asked Jerott.

"Yes," said the man, standing up and stretching. "I've been sitting in this wretched place for hours waiting for someone else to come in."

\-------------------------------------------

They found a lighter, busier tavern closer to the heart of the city. Jerott ordered the ale and joined the man at a corner table where he sat instinctively with his back to the wall. "This is absurd," said Jerott, once the drink had arrived and they had taken their first, investigative sips and deemed it good. "I don't know your name."

"It's Johannes," said the man.

"No surname?" asked Jerott, more curious than suspicious.

"I've left it behind me," said Johannes. "I'm looking for a new one."

"That explains your boots," said Jerott.

Johannes smiled, perplexed. "My boots?"

"They're quite nice," said Jerott.

"Ah," said Johannes vaguely. "Thank you." He swallowed an unusually large gulp of ale and was forced to cough a bit before asking, "And your name?"

"Jerott Blythe," said Jerott, "but you have to call me Jerott if I'm calling you Johannes."

"Very well, Jerott," said Johannes, and raised his flagon.

\-------------------------------------------

"Barkeep! Barkeep!" shouted Jerott, slamming his palm on the table. "Two more, please. Two more."

Johannes giggled as the bartender walked away. "I think he wants to kill us and steal our money." He then cocked his head to one side, distressed.

"It's all right, it's all right," said Jerott. "I'll protect us."

"It's not that," said Johannes.

"What is it?"

"I just giggled," Johannes said solemnly.

Jerott nodded, and glared at the group of men seated at the table text to theirs. They had gradually edged their chairs closer and closer and were now sprawled in their chairs practically touching Jerott's back. "What I am saying is," said Jerott, "if we're going to play this game and talk about these things, we need to go somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?" Johannes sounded dismayed. "How many taverns do you think will be less crowded than this one? At this time of night, for God's sake. Also," and here he paused, looked over his shoulder and leaned in. "I don't think," he whispered heavily, breathing stale ale into Jerott's face, "I would be able to find my way back."

"Back where?" asked Jerott.

"Back to where I am staying. In the lower city. With my sister's family."

"Your sister lives in the lower city?" asked Jerott, surprised. "But I though you were noble?"

"I left," said Johannes. "So did she. But I shouldn't have said that. It's your turn now. How did your wife die?"

Jerott took a gulp of ale, part of the game. "She was shot. A man thought she was her brother."

"They looked alike?"

"They were very alike."

"She was beautiful?"

"She was very beautiful."

"I am sorry."

Jerott took another gulp. "Your turn."

"No," said Johannes, "you were right. We can't talk like this down here."

The innkeeper arrived with the ale and Johannes leaned dangerously back in his chair and tugged on his apron. "Are there rooms upstairs? My friend and I need to have a very important conversation."

The innkeeper looked skeptical. "Can you pay?"

Jerott groped inside his cloak and drew out his coin pouch. He dropped it on the table with a thud.

"Of course, yes," said the innkeeper. "Follow me."

Jerott and Johannes helped each other to their feet and staggered after him. The stairs were tricky to navigate, but the rail was made of sturdy wood and they reached the top without misadventure. The room the man led them to had a small window facing a wall. The floor let out a mellow creak as Jerott walked inside and sat down on the edge of the bed. Johannes followed and leaned against the table. The barkeep placed their ale beside Johannes, opened the window, and then left, closing the door behind him.

"Why did you leave?" asked Jerott, toppling backwards onto the bed. He stared up at the slightly stained canopy and waited for Johannes to respond.

When the response came, Johannes spoke more quietly than he had thus far, even though there were no ruffians to overhear what he said. "I was---I am---a younger son. I never expected anything from my father, and I didn't receive it. When he died and my brother took up his title I received less than nothing. So I left."

"I'm sorry," said Jerott. The stain on the canopy resembled a crucifix. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned on his side.

"Follow-up questions?" prompted Johannes.

"Right. He was a blackguard?"

"Yes."

"He didn't like you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No," said Johannes. "That was two. My turn."

"Very well," said Jerott. His head was throbbing. The game was beginning to bore him.

The table groaned as Johannes slid off of it. The bed sagged as he sat beside Jerott. "You mentioned before that you worked for your wife's brother. What manner of work was that?"

"I was a hired soldier," said Jerott. "I fought, and then when I couldn't fight anymore I married Marthe."

"And that was the end of fighting?"

"No."

"What did you think of him?"

Jerott rubbed his face with his hand. His mouth tasted dreadful. "I don't know," said Jerott. "I only felt."

Johannes plopped backwards. His head thudded a little as it hit the mattress. "Harder than I expected," he mused. "What did you feel about him?"

Johannes was over his allowed number of questions. But Jerott hadn't gulped the ale, so he supposed the rules had been thrown out the window like slops. "I don't know," he said again. "And that's the truth."

"I see," said Johannes. "I see."

The two of them lay like that, Jerott curled on his side facing away from Johannes, who faced upwards at the cruciform stain on the canopy. A sudden wind outside moaned through the narrow space between the window and the wall opposite and the window slammed shut. In the wake of the slam, the room was incredibly quiet. Jerott could hear Johannes' breathing. It was very slow and even, in out in out. Jerott thought him asleep, until Johannes rolled to his side as well and said, "That's enough questions I think."

Jerott hummed in agreement. "Enough ale, too," he said. His voice sounded odd to his own ears. It was thick and sleepy.

"Yes," said Johannes.

"I don't believe I can move," said Jerott. "I've been riding for days."

Johannes slid sideways on the bed and rolled onto his side. Suddenly there he was, curled against Jerott's back. He flung an arm over and grasped Jerott's hand. "Heat cures soreness," he said. "That is why saunas work."

The warmth coming from Johannes was already overwhelming. A soft body there was unexpected, and Jerott felt heat spreading up his neck and over his face, like a blush. It probably was a blush. "What is a sauna?"

Johannes brought his mouth to Jerott's ear. "Stones are heated. Water is poured over them. Steam rises into the air." He pressed his lips to the skin beneath Jerott's ear.

"What---?" Jerott turned to face him, rolling, bringing their noses close together. Jerott could barely see the rest of Johannes for his eyes. They were brown, after all.

They were also, suddenly, terrified. "Did I---" He cleared his throat. "Was I wrong?"

"Very wrong," growled Jerott, and pushed Johannes's shoulders back onto the mattress. With one hand he reached between them, down the front of Johannes's breeches. Johannes arched to meet his touch.

"Ah," he gasped. "Let me---" He pulled his arm from where it had been trapped when Jerott forced him over and fumbled with Jerott's breeches.

"They're tight," Jerott managed.

"I've got them," Johannes groaned.

Jerott wasn't sure Johannes actually had succeeded until he felt Johannes's hand on his cock and heard Johannes's voice in his ear whispering, "See?" His voice hitched at the end, because Jerott's hand had increased in speed.

"Oh God," said Jerott.

"I know."

"Oh GOD."

"I know."

Jerott bit his lip and came. Johannes pushed at Jerott, forcing himself up. For a moment Jerott thought that he resented having been beaten to the punch, so to speak. Seconds later he realized how wrong he was when Johannes tugged violently at his breeches. They settled around his knees. Then Johannes did the same to himself, except he took the time to kick them off to the bottom of the bed.

Jerott sat up and kissed Johannes. He could feel Johannes, still hard, against his stomach. Johannes bit Jerott's bottom lip and mumbled something before, with one fluid motion, forcing Jerott back and rolling him over. Jerott propped himself up on his knees and forearms. He tried to look over his shoulder at Johannes, but his neck protested.

Johannes reached around and touched him. His hand moved, rhythmic, on Jerott's cock, willing it back to hardness.

"Can we just fuck?" Jerott groaned. "Can you just fuck me already?"

Johannes leaned onto Jerott's back and whispered in his ear. "I'll fuck you when I'm good and ready," he said. "If you're lucky."

"Please," said Jerott.

"That didn't take long," said Johannes.

"I'm not begging. I'm being polite. Damn you," said Jerott.

Johannes entered him. It was sudden, but not rough. Jerott still saw stars. He grunted and concentrated on keeping his arms on the bed and not collapsing. Johannes was breathing hard and swearing in German, but he was still moving maddeningly slowly. Even his hand on Jerott's cock was not going as quickly as Jerott would have liked.

"Faster," he said.

"Can you take it?" asked Johannes.

"I can take a lot," said Jerott.

Johannes kissed the back of his neck. "I can stop any time," he said, and sped up.

What he had felt before was nothing to this. Jerott bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and willed himself not to come again, so soon. When he fucked Marthe, all those years ago, it had taken forever for him to orgasm. Marthe had made fun of him endlessly, especially after pointing out that when she took his cock in her mouth was the only time he didn't close his eyes. "It's because when you look down," she said, "you can't tell it's me." Now, Jerott knew it was Johannes. The voice muttering little words in his ear ("Come on, come on, come on, a little more, schiesse, you feel so good, oh God, oh God, oh yes, I'm going to---") was emphatically his. And when Johannes did indeed come (only a little while after Jerott himself finally allowed himself to), he rolled off Jerott and took his hand. Jerott pushed himself onto his side facing Johannes.

"Will you go?" asked Jerott, when he could speak again.

Johannes was still winded. "What?"

"I mean will you leave Carcassonne? Or will you stay?"

"I won't stay," said Johannes. "Will you?"

"No," said Jerott.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then," said Johannes, resting his hand, which still held Jerott's, on his chest, "why shouldn't we go there together? Wherever there is."

"I ride alone," said Jerott. "Usually."

Johannes laughed breathily. "And has that worked?"

"No," Jerott was forced to admit. "It has not."

"Then let us ride together," said Johannes, "and you can see if that works."

Jerott exhaled slowly. Then he nodded. And then slowly, even though he wasn't sure what would happen next, Jerott began to relax.

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